The Mysterious Mother/Act 2 Scene 1

ACT the SECOND.

The SCENE continues.

Count EDMUND, FLORIAN.

EDMUND.Doubt not, my friend; Time's pencil, hardships, war,Some taste of pleasure too, have chas'd the bloomOf ruddy comeliness, and stamp'd this faceWith harsher lineaments, that well may mockThe prying of a mother's eye.—A mother,Thro' whose firm nerves tumultuous instinct's floodNe'er gush'd with eager eloquence, to tell her,This is your son! your heart's own voice proclaims him.

FLORIAN.If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred.Those jarring passions spring from the same source:Hate is distemper'd love.

EDMUND.Hate is distemper'd love.Why should she hate me?For that my opening passion's swelling ardourPrompted congenial necessary joy,Was that a cause?—Nor was she then so rigid.No sanctified dissembler had possess'dHer scar'd imagination, teaching her,That holiness begins where nature ends.No, Florian, she herself was woman then;A sensual woman. Nor satiety,Sickness and age, and virtue's frowardness, Had so obliterated pleasure's relish—She might have pardon'd what she felt so well.

FLORIAN.Forgive me, Edmund; nay, nor think I preach,If I, god wot, of morals loose enough,Seem to condemn you. You have often told me,The night, the very night that to your armsGave pretty Beatrice's melting beauties,Was the same night on which your father died.

EDMUND.'Tis true—and thou, sage monitor, dost thouHold love a crime so irremissible?Wouldst thou have turn'd thee from a willing girl,To sing a requiem to thy father's soul?I thought my mother busied with her tears,Her faintings, and her masses, while I stoleTo Beatrice's chamber.—How my motherBecame appriz'd, I know not: but her heart,Never too partial to me, grew estrang'd.Estrang'd!—aversion in its fellest moodScowl'd from her eye, and drove me from her sight.She call'd me impious: nam'd my honest lewdness,A profanation of my father's ashes.I knelt and wept, and, like a puling boy,For now my blood was cool, believ'd, confess'dMy father's hov'ring spirit incens'd against me.This weak confession but inflam'd her wrath;And when I would have bath'd her hand with tears,She snatch'd it back with horror.

FLORIAN.Of over-acted sorrow. Grief fatig'Twas the trickOf over-acted sorrow. Grief fatigues;And each collateral circumstance is seiz'd To cheat th' uneasy feeling. Sable chambers,The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe,Are but a specious theatre, on whichTh' inconstant mind with decency forgetsIts inward tribute. Who can doubt the loveWhich to a father's shade devotes the son?[Ironically.

EDMUND.Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery,Beyond a widow's pious artifice,Lies hid beneath aversion so relentless.All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.Chose she some second partner of her bed,Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints,And rogues that act contrition, it were proofOf her hypocrisy, or lust of fameIn monkish annals. But to me her handIs bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,Bating enjoyment of my native soil,Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,As if I held them by the strength of charters.

FLORIAN.Why set them on the hazard then, when she,Who deals them may revoke? Your absence henceThe sole condition.

EDMUND.The sole condition.I am weary, Florian,Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,To lend my casual arm's approved valourTo quarrels, nor my country's nor my own?To stain my sword with random blood !—I foughtAt Buda 'gainst the Turk—a holy war, So was it deem'd—I smote the turban'd race:Did zeal or did ambition nerve my blow?Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domesWhether the crescent or the cross prevail'd?Mean time on alien climes I dissipatedWealth from my subjects wrung, the peasant's tribute,Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laidMy mould'ring castles—Yes, ye moss-grown walls!Ye tow'rs defenceless!—I revisit yeShame-stricken.—Where are all your trophies now?Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homageOf neighb'ring barons? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul,Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors,Creep like a spy, and watch to thrid your gatesUnnotic'd? No; with martial attributes,With waving banners and enlivening fifes,They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws,And welcome them and triumph.

FLORIAN.And welcome them and triumph.True, my lord;They reign'd the monarchs of a score of miles;Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottageWithin their cannon's mandate. Deadly feudsFor obsolete offences, now array'dTheir livery'd banditti, prompt to dealOn open vallies and unguarded herds,On helpless virgins and unweapon'd boors,The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they dar'dTo scowl defiance to the distant throne,Imprison'd, canton'd inaccessiblyIn their own rock-built dungeons—Are these glories My Edmund's soul's ambitious to revive?Thus would he bless his vassals!

EDMUND.My friend, is just. But had I nThy reproof,My friend, is just. But had I not a cause,A tender cause, that prompted my return?This cruel parent, whom I blame, and mourn,Whose harshness I resent, whose woes I pity,Has won my love, by winning my respect.Her letters! Florian; such unstudied strainsOf virtuous eloquence! She bids me, yes,This praying Magdalen enjoins my courageTo emulate my great forefathers' deeds.Tells me, that shame and guilt alone are mortal;That death but bars the possibilityOf frailty, and embalms untainted honour.Then blots and tears efface some half-told woeLab'ring in her full bosom. I decypher'dIn one her blessing granted, and eras'd.And yet what follow'd, mark'd anxietyFor my soul's welfare. I must know this riddle.I must, will comfort her. She cannot surely,After such perils, wounds by her commandEncounter'd, after sixteen exil'd years,Spurn me, when kneeling—Think'st thou 'tis possible?

FLORIAN.I would not think it; but a host of priestsSurround her. They, good men, are seldom foundTo plead the cause of pity. Self-denial,Whose dissonance from nature's kindest lawsBy contradicting wins on our perverseness,Is rank fanaticism's belov'd machine.Oh! 'twill be heroism, a sacrifice, To curb the torrent of maternal fondness!You shall be beggar'd, that the saint your motherMay, by cowl'd sycophants and canting juglers,Be hail'd, be canoniz'd a new Teresa.Pray be not seen here: let's again to th' wars.

EDMUND.No, Florian; my dull'd soul is sick of riot:Sick of the thoughtless jollity of camps,Where revelry subsists on desolation,And shouts of joy contend with dying groans.Our sports are fleeting; snatch'd, perhaps, not granted.'Tis time to bid adieu to vagrant pleasure,And fix the wanderer love. Domestic bliss—

FLORIAN.Yes, your fair pensioner, young Adeliza,Has sober'd your inconstancy. Her smilesWere exquisite—to rule a family! [Ironically.

So matron-like an air—She must be fruitful.

EDMUND.Pass we this levity—'Tis true, the maidenIs beauty's type renew'd. Like blooming EveIn nature's young simplicity, and blushingWith wonder at creation's opening glow,She charms, unknowing what it is to charm.

FLORIAN.This is a lover's language—Is she kind?

EDMUND.Cold as the metal bars that part her from me;She listens, but replies not to my purpose.

FLORIAN.How gain'd you then admittance?

EDMUND.How gain'd you then admittanceThis whole month, While waiting your arrival, I have hauntedHer convent's parlour. 'Tis my mother's wishTo match her nobly. Hence her guardian abbessAdmits such visitors as claim her noticeBy worthy bearing, and convenient splendor.O Florian, union with that favour'd maidenMight reconcile my mother—Hark! what sound—[A chapel bell rings.

FLORIAN.A summons to some office of devotion.My lord, weigh well what you project—[Singing within.

EDMUND.Voices that seem approaching—huh! tI hearVoices that seem approaching—huh! they sing.Listen!

FLORIAN.Listen!No; let us hence: you will be known.

EDMUND.They cannot know me—see!